Round Two: FIGHT
Isolation Wing, last medicine run of the night; the latest run, the fewest stops. The med cart, manned by two large male orderlies, makes its way down the hall. It pauses only at the cells of the patients who are restrained and therefore, presumably, require no armed cover or extra bodies. A cell opens, one man goes inside, the other waits in the doorway with his arms crossed. Occasionally, he will unfold his arms and step inside-then, both come out again, the door is sealed, and the procession continues. The all-seeing eye of security always observing through those little cameras, staggered along the walls.
Tonight, Big Brother will witness a slight abnormality at cell I-44.
The cart stops. The cell is unlocked, and the first man goes in. The second one steps up to the door and waits. He jumps, unfolds his arms and rushes into the cell.
Nothing.
Finally, out comes somebody: a pale somebody with noodly, dirty brown hair, kicking a white pile of fabric along the floor and still pulling off the long sleeves of his white jacket. The sleeves turn inside out as he tugs his arms free, but stay bunched up in the middle where the belt connects them. He tosses the garment back into the cell, swings the door shut, picks up the pile of cloth and sticks it on the cart. He then begins to wheel the cart away from the cell, looking up and around at the walls-aha, camera spotted. The picture may not be crystal clear, but that is most definitely a grin. A wide, wide, sharp grin. And is he...waving? He is. Son of a bitch.
From the white pile he produces one of two coiled springy rubber keychains: a green one, adorned with important-looking things like keys and security cards. Off he trots with his medical pushcart, peeking into cells, unlocking cells, opening cells. "Allll-right, gentlemen, it's time to go. Tiiime to go, time to go. Everybody out." Opening cells, opening cells, moving quickly, looking over his shoulder, looking down the hall for guards. Mostly he ignores the doors once they're open, but when he opens the room that contains John Constantine, good ol' Chuck pauses in the doorway to waggle his eyebrows before moving on.
To the nearest of the emerging hall-wanderers (perhaps John, perhaps some random fella, whoever happens to be there) he tosses the green keychain, keeping the second for himself. "Here, go nuts. And don't..." He points for emphasis! "...get picky, this party's for everyone. Open 'em aaall up." Will he? Who even knows? One can only hope Joe Inmate knows how to work a door.
And now...he runs. He runs, leaps onto the pushcart and rides it like a shopping cart down the hall. Provided no guards have managed to trudge their incompetent asses out here by this time, and thusly interrupt his glorious romp, he will then disappear into a supply closet.
Tonight, Big Brother will witness a slight abnormality at cell I-44.
The cart stops. The cell is unlocked, and the first man goes in. The second one steps up to the door and waits. He jumps, unfolds his arms and rushes into the cell.
Nothing.
Finally, out comes somebody: a pale somebody with noodly, dirty brown hair, kicking a white pile of fabric along the floor and still pulling off the long sleeves of his white jacket. The sleeves turn inside out as he tugs his arms free, but stay bunched up in the middle where the belt connects them. He tosses the garment back into the cell, swings the door shut, picks up the pile of cloth and sticks it on the cart. He then begins to wheel the cart away from the cell, looking up and around at the walls-aha, camera spotted. The picture may not be crystal clear, but that is most definitely a grin. A wide, wide, sharp grin. And is he...waving? He is. Son of a bitch.
From the white pile he produces one of two coiled springy rubber keychains: a green one, adorned with important-looking things like keys and security cards. Off he trots with his medical pushcart, peeking into cells, unlocking cells, opening cells. "Allll-right, gentlemen, it's time to go. Tiiime to go, time to go. Everybody out." Opening cells, opening cells, moving quickly, looking over his shoulder, looking down the hall for guards. Mostly he ignores the doors once they're open, but when he opens the room that contains John Constantine, good ol' Chuck pauses in the doorway to waggle his eyebrows before moving on.
To the nearest of the emerging hall-wanderers (perhaps John, perhaps some random fella, whoever happens to be there) he tosses the green keychain, keeping the second for himself. "Here, go nuts. And don't..." He points for emphasis! "...get picky, this party's for everyone. Open 'em aaall up." Will he? Who even knows? One can only hope Joe Inmate knows how to work a door.
And now...he runs. He runs, leaps onto the pushcart and rides it like a shopping cart down the hall. Provided no guards have managed to trudge their incompetent asses out here by this time, and thusly interrupt his glorious romp, he will then disappear into a supply closet.